


The Killer Cabbie

by jdmcool



Series: Mycroft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Related, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:30:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a series of seemingly unrelated suicides in London and while he'd rather avoid it, Lestrade finds himself getting help from the world's only consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Killer Cabbie

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=118617375#t118617375) at the Sherlock Kink Meme and this particular [confession](http://sherlock--confessions.tumblr.com/post/30878909783).

Leaning back in his chair, Greg ran his hands over his eyes with a heavy sigh. It was bad enough that he had to give that damn press conference in an effort to keeping the people of London ever calm in the face of the series of random suicides that everyone was starting to think were related, not that they had found any evidence to point to such a fact. But then in the middle, that prat had to go and text everyone there that they were wrong as though he was so bloody clever for figuring out that they were missing something.

It wasn’t as though Greg didn’t already know that since he knew how stupid the idea of unrelated suicides sounded, but without that one clue, there was no way he could ever piece it together. And he had donehis best. They all had. The moment they called off the interview he set about trying to view the case in a number of new angles, but nothing new suddenly cropped up and eventually, after a few tireless hours of looking over the case like it was a bloody Where’s Wally book, he gave up.

“You’ve got to stop him doing that,” Sally said as she walked into his office, shutting the door behind her. Leaning back against it, she crossed her arms over her chest as she gave him a rather sympathetic look. “He’s making us look bad.”

“Well if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.” Sitting up, he ran his hand through his hair as he tried to blink away the tiredness he felt. “Hell, if you can tell me who the bloody hell he is, I’ll stop him.”

“Still no trace on the number?”

Greg shook his head as he said, “Every time we run it, it comes up with a new place. Last time he was in Slough.”

At that Sally chuckled. Not that the situation was all that funny, but after nearly five years of their mysterious helper, most of them had learned to enjoy the odd places the number seemed to be traced to. Some of the newer guys were even convinced that the location was positively real and the man was some sort of secret agent or something, as though someone like that wouldn’t have something better to do than mess about with the police.

“So we have a mysterious git harassing us from God knows where who may very well be responsible for these crimes,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“I doubt it. Last time we got these it was over that missing wife who was just trying to extort money from her husband after running off with her bloody gardener.”

“Right. Thinking that we have some kind of mysterious angel helping us out when from afar is a lot more logical.”

A point that Greg unwillingly conceded too. Whoever it was that kept texting them, it obviously someone out to simply taunt them like everyone expected a serial killer to do. But the fact that the person never showed their face or seemed to be an actual cop made things seem a bit dodgy. After all, to say they had been getting help from their mystery man for so long, no one had ever seen hide nor hair of him. He was like a ghost, always up on the latest information involving their cases, but never actually there.

Sighing, Greg shrugged a bit helplessly. “Look, it’s clear that whoever it is, the person’s more than a bit sick, but he’s not hurting anyone and he has been fairly useful in the time. Like when he told us where to find that bloke who faked his death.”

“Without ever stepping foot on the crime scene,” Sally reminded him, since she had never been all that fond of the mystery man.

“Yeah. It’s dodgy, but he’s helpful, whoever the hell he is.” Taking note of the stern look Sally was giving him, Greg held up his hands and corrected him himself.  “Well, he’s helpful when he wants to be, I guess.”

Something not even Sally could deny, not that she tried to. Instead she just forced herself away from the door as she placed her hands on her hips, giving him that pitying look that got tossed around toward those who started to revere their strange helper.

Opening her mouth, she let out a soft breath. “Yeah, but one of these days he’s going to get bored. You know how he is. The weirder the case the more he texts.”

“Maybe he just knows when we need the most help,” Greg suggested, knowing how naive he sounded.

Shaking her head almost sadly, Sally patted him on the shoulder and said.“No. Watch, helping out won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and this mystery man’ll be the one who put it there.”

“Yeah well...”

Looking at his computer as the sound of a new email went off, he turned away from her to see just what it could be. If he was honest with himself, he was hoping that someone would’ve figured out just who was behind those random suicides, but looking over the message, he couldn’t say that he was all that disappointed with what he got instead.

“What is it?” Sally asked as she turned to face his computer as well, obviously confused by the smile on his face.

“Email. Apparently we’ve managed to track down our mystery texter,” he laughed as he wrote down the address.

“Not another wild goose chase.”

“Nope.” Hopping out of his seat, Greg began to put on his coat, feeling rather gleeful. “It’s in London and we got a last name this time: Holmes.”

Looking away from the screen to him, Sally stared in a pleased sort of shock. “How’d we get that?”

“Don’t care. If you need me, I’ll be out meeting our little stalker.”

“You sure you want to go alone?”

Greg scoffed as he waved off the question as though it was the most ludicrous idea he’d ever heard. “One miserable bloke who gets his jollies helping out us? I think I can handle it on my own.”

“Be careful,” Sally warned.

“It’s a bloody meeting. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

Rolling his eyes, Greg headed out, determined not to let Sally ruin his mood. While figuring out jut who or what was behind the suicides wasn't likely to happen, he could at least figure out who it was that had been harassing them for the past year and that was just as good in his books. It was why on the whole ride there, he'd been damn near ecstatic. Certainly, while not as big, the whole mystery texter issue had become a case in itself in some way.

When he finally arrived at the address, he had to pause to try and calm himself down before he knocked on the door. He couldn't wait for the git to open the door so he could finally figure out why it was the man was so interested in messing about with them instead of just joining Soctland Yard like everyone else who wanted to be of service to the police. Shaking his head a bit angrily, Greg nearly jumped when the door opened.

“Hello. How may I help you?”

Surprised to find such an attractive young woman opening the door, Greg looked at the address he had copied down with a frown as he looked at the door number. Turning his attentions back to where she was watching him curiously, he said, “Hi. I’m looking for a Mr. Holmes?”

“You are?” She questioned, seeming a rather amused. Moving out of the way she gestured for him to enter as well. “Come in.”

“You seem surprised I might be here,” Greg said, doing as he was told.

To her credit, the young woman did nothing more than smile a little brighter at him. “How do you know I’m not just easily surprised?”

Nodding in agreement, he decided  let the matter go with a simple, “Fair enough. Know where I can find him?”

“He lives in the flat upstairs. Fairly certain I heard him kicking about up there earlier.”

“Thanks uh...”

“Anthea.”

“That’s a different sort of name,” he said, hoping he didn’t seem like a complete git for it.

After all, with people naming their kids after cars and bands and whatever cool brand they happened to enjoy, it  wasn’t necessarily out of place to make his sort of comment. Different was good these days, even if Greg would’ve killed to meet more Emilys than Mercedes or Princesses.

“Yes, well, it’s what Mr. Holmes calls me,” she said with a shrug.

Pausing, Greg furrowed his brows as the statement hit him. “Wait... That’s not your name?”

“Not even close. Would you like a cup of tea? Some water perhaps?”

And how Anthea wasn’t bothered by the fact that she had been renamed by the man he was after was almost as curious as how a man could just rename a woman like that. Of course, the whole point of him being there was to figure out just what kind of man this Mr. Holmes was to begin with.

Taking note of the expectant look on her face, Greg remembered that he had been asked a question and shook his head quickly. “I’m fine thanks. So... Uh... What can you tell me about this Holmes bloke?”

“He’s a very large fan of yours, Mr. Lestrade.”

“You know who I am?” He asked, wondering if it had been unwise to not bring someone with him after all.

Of course, with the way Anthea smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was worrying for nothing as she said, “I told you, he’s a fan. Always talking about you and the Met.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not a good thing,” she said, smile never fading. “Would you like me to show you to his quarters?”

“If it’s not too much to ask,” he said, trying to overlook the obvious dig she had just made at his expense.

“I’d be happy to.”

Without another word, she made her way up to the man’s flat, Greg keeping close to her. When she let herself into Mr. Holmes’ space, Greg couldn’t help but be mildly surprised by the tidiness of it all. It was like a home out of a bloody magazine, everything in its place from the books that lined his book case to the papers neatly stacked in an inbox on adesk.

Looking around, Anthea pressed her lips together in a thin line before calling out for the man. “Hello? You’ve a visitor?”

Taking in the room, Greg stilled when he noticed that every windowsill and the mantle seemed to be lined with bottles of various sizes and shapes. Moving to glance at the man’s kitchen, he wasn’t surprised to find more, although the empty state of them all left him feeling rather confused.

“He collect bottles or something?” He asked Anthea as he made his way back over to her.

“Or something,” she said in that tone that meant he wasn’t to ask more. Making her way down a hallway, she called out for him again. “Mr. Holmes?”

Exiting a room with a full plastic bag, the man they were both looking for handed it over to her before making his way over to the laptop resting on the sofa. “I need these shredded and don’t touch anything. Thank you.”

Watching the man and his odd behaviour, Greg didn’t know what to make out of the situation as he tried to reconcile the myth of Scotland Yard with the curious man before him. Aside from the height, he wasn’t at all what Greg had expected. Only a bit younger than Greg himself, he was far too thin with an almost sickly parlour. He looked almost sickly in his striped suit, something that made his blue eyes stand out even more. Rather a weird mix of haggard drunk and Victorian gentleman that Greg could in no way relate to the man that had been harassing them for all those year.

“I’m not your PA,” Anthea complained.

Looking up from his computer, the man nodded slowly as he did his best to look apologetic. “I know.”

“Good. And you have a visitor,” she said before exiting with the bag, likely to do as the man had told her.

Quickly turning to look at Greg, the man merely cocked his head as he looked him over. Rising to his feet, a look of disgust seemed to pass over his features briefly. “May I help you?”

“I think you’re the one who texted me I was wrong this afternoon,” Greg said, holding up his mobile.

Obviously lost, the man continued to stare at him before smiling far too politely for Greg’s liking. “Heh. Of course, of course. You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Yep. And you must be...”

“Mycroft Holmes, consulting detective,” he said holding out his hand.

Shaking it, Greg laughed bitterly. “I don’t recall ever coming to you for help.”

“Without me there are over thirty cases you never would’ve figured out. You’re welcome.”

“Don’t recall saying thank you,” he shot back quickly.

“Yes well, I figured you were just being forgetful,” Mycroft said before returning his focus to his laptop.

He didn’t know if he was merely shocked or appalled by the way Mycroft went back to acting as though he wasn’t even there, fingers gliding quickly over various keys as he typed up something, but Greg knew that he wasn’t going to stand for it. Going over to him, Greg closed the laptop, just narrowly avoiding catching Mycroft’s fingers in the process.

“You know what you do is illegal, right? You can’t just hack into people’s phones like that.”

“I suppose now that you’re here and have met me, I won’t need to keep up the secrecy.” Sitting back, Mycroft crossed his legs adding thoughtfully, “Although, to be fair, you are quite wrong about the suicides.”

“What?”

“They aren’t suicides. You have a serial killer on the loose and seem to be doing a rather poor job of finding him.”

“Him?” Greg asked suspiciously.

Smiling in that polite way again, Mycroft held up a finger toward him. “Logic, more than personal knowledge is the source of that fact. After all, most serial killers tend to be males.”

“How is he killing them then?”

“Not certain yet. It’s a rather amusing conundrum though,” he said, obviously getting some kind of thrill out of it all.

“Stop smiling, alright?” Greg ordered, a bit leery of the man he was dealing with. “People are dying and right now you’re the closest thing I have to a suspect. Why shouldn’t I arrest you?”

“Because I didn’t do it. I just notice things.”

“Right. All of this help you give is because you notice things without ever being around?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Paper, the internet, CCTV.”

“What? You... You know how to get into the CCTV? And I’m supposed to trust you’re not behind all this?”

Honestly, if the man said anything else, Greg was fairly certain that he was going to have to arrest him on the basis that he was likely a domestic terrorist of some sort, albeit a very posh one. Something he didn’t actually want to do given all that the not-so-mysterious gentleman had done for him in the past.

Licking his lips, Mycroft rested his hands in his lap as his looked off toward the window.  “Your wife and you have been fighting for three weeks now. Your work has been getting in the way more than usual, which is interfering with your sleep. Not that sleeping on your sofa helps. She left you a message that you refuse to listen to, likely because you know that she’s going to ask you for time apart. She wants you to end things, but you’re still in love and I’m sorry for how intrusive that must sound, but you’d be better off divorcing her.”

“How did...”Stopping when he felt his phone go off, Greg nearly growled at the message on the screen. “Fuck.”

“They found another body?” Mycroft asked as he sat up even straighter.

“Yeah,” Greg muttered. “And you’re coming with.”

“No thank you. I’m busy.”

With that Mycroft opened his laptop again, going back to his typing once again. Nodding to himself, Greg moved over to see what it was the man was typing, something that got him a curious look from Mycroft. Not that it really matter much before the moment that the man stopped moving his hands, Greg handcuffed one of his wrists.

“You’re not busy,” he said, glaring at Mycroft as he handcuffed his other wrist. “You’re plastered and as of this moment, you’re also under arrest until I’m done with you, understood?”

“You can’t—“

“Yeah, yeah. Complain as you move,” he said forcing the man to his feet.

“May I at least grab my coat and umbrella?” Mycroft asked nodding over to where both were leaning against a chair.

“Umbrella?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, going over to them. Grabbing both, he held up the umbrella. “It’s a device used to prevent one from getting drenched in times of wet weather. And considering that you’ll likely be spending the rest of night questioning me pointlessly, could you at least make them interesting?”

“Right,” Greg said, shoving him toward the door a bit rougher than necessary.

“Do you treat all those you arrest in this way?”     

“Only the smug ones. Now come along. We’ve a crime scene to go look at.”

Because if the man could figure out so many of their cases from a distance, having him at the actual crime scene might actually prove to be even better since Greg couldn’t help but hope that jut maybe they’d be able to catch the guy behind it all before someone else wound up dead.


End file.
